Unexpected Outcomes of Cases
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Crossing the road is something little children are taught to do properly and safely. Some of them may have deleted it, though. So this is what happens when an unfortunately busy road come between a certain Consulting Detective and a case. Three-shot, probably.
1. Part 1

I don't own anything.

* * *

Unexpected Outcomes of Cases

Part 1

They were following the suspect. Or the murderer, probably, who had fled from the crime scene after Sherlock had deduced everything about him right in front of Lestrade.

And now they were following him, running. Pursuing.

John could already feel his lungs starting to burn and he knew he was about to lose him. And to lose Sherlock, who was directly behind.

Not good.

Where was Lestrade? Had missed one turn, probably, and was now somewhere entirely else. No-one knew the city as well as Sherlock did, and that was why he was still close to their suspect.

"Come on, John!" he heard his friend shout from quite a distance. "We're losing him!"

Losing him. Brilliant. At the moment, John was more concerned about breathing. Drawing breath into his protesting lungs.

_Breathing__'__s boring_, a voice echoed through his mind.

"Damn it," he hissed between gritted teeth and tried to speed up a bit. Or tried to convince his muscles to contract at all.

The sound of his own heartbeat and his own panting was the only thing he could still hear. Jesus, he was getting too old for these kinds of things!

He rounded a corner and could catch a glimpse of Sherlock's coat not too far ahead of him. Finally. _Finally._

John willed his legs to another short sprint and was suddenly able to see both Sherlock and their murderer, still running from them. Running towards a road.

Run. One step after the other. Jesus, maybe he should indeed start doing some workout.

They were really losing their suspect, he realised within split seconds as the man crossed the road, Sherlock about hundred feet behind him.

John almost stumbled because he had been focusing so hard on the other two men that he had not bothered to look at where he was running.

Neither did Sherlock, apparently.

Sherlock who, as John noted within an eyeblink, made for crossing the road, too, not gazing sideways, not noticing the car approaching.

For a moment, John's body ceased to function, simply stopping. And staring in horror at what was happening.

In the next second, the air was filled by the sound of brakes screeching and something solid hitting the car. Sherlock.

"SHERLOCK!"

It took John what felt like an eternity to be able to move again, to start running towards the road where the car had finally come to a halt and where Sherlock was, somewhere, lying on the concrete, run over by a car… An eternity in which the only thought John could form in his mind was: _God, please, let it not have been his head. Let it not have been his head._

Because if it had been Sherlock's head making that sound upon hitting the front window of the car, then all was lost. Then John had to prepare himself to see his best friend lying on the concrete with his head smashed open. Again. And John didn't think he would ever get over that, again.

"No, Sherlock, don't," he mumbled to himself as he was running towards the street, the pain in his lungs and the stiffness in his leg muscles completely forgotten.

_Please, let it not have been his head.  
_

* * *

John needed far too much time to reach the road, far too much.

Horror was building inside his veins as he came ever closer, and each step made it more painful to breathe.

Sherlock.

The car was blocking his view at first, Sherlock having been hit by it and then having landed on the other side of it, on the side away from John.

God, there was blood on the car. Sherlock's blood. If he had hit his head…

No.

Without slowing down or paying attention to the driver sitting, apparently in shock, on his seat, John rounded the car, only to find his worst assumptions confirmed.

Sherlock. Lying on the concrete. Perfectly still. Not moving. And bloodied.

No, was all John could think. No, please…

He skidded to a halt next to Sherlock, falling to his knees, not caring that he was bloodying them on the rough concrete, and reached out a trembling hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock of whom he could only see the back of a head, dark hair… and blood.

No…

No…

John briefly closed his eyes, pausing in his movement, forcefully being reminded of the only other time he had seen Sherlock like that. On the concrete in front of Bart's. Blood on the pavement.

He still had his eyes closed when he heard shouting from somewhere, someone demanding for an ambulance to be called… and a moan.

His eyes shot open, and his hand finally reached Sherlock's neck.

Another moan.

"J'hn?"

Oh God. Oh God.

Relief he had never felt before flooded through John as he quickly crawled forth a bit, his fingers not leaving Sherlock's neck where he could clearly feel a pulse, to see his friend's face.

Relief which was quickly replace by worry.

"Ah…"

Sherlock's eyes were open, but terribly unfocused, and in the minutes since the accident he had turned chalk white. And there was still blood on the concrete, blood coming from his head and…

From his shoulder, his left shoulder, looking horribly dislocated. Broken, John knew at once, even without lifting Sherlock's thick coat. Shoulder, certainly, and maybe even clavicle.

But _alive_.

Sherlock groaned again, his eye lids fluttering. "Jhn…," he slurred, the word barely understandable.

John's heart was in his throat as he removed his fingers from Sherlock's neck and rested them on his cheek instead. "I'm here, Sherlock," he assured, "I'm here. It's alright, it… no, don't move! Simply lie still."

Sherlock had tried to move his head a bit, resulting only in weak convulsing of his neck muscles and another whimper. A whimper. John bit the inside of his cheek.

Whiplash, most likely. Head injury probable, judging by the bleeding. Abrasions in his face.

"What's happened here?" a familiar voice suddenly called. Oh god Greg. How could he have forgotten about Greg?

"Let me through, police, let me through…"

John looked up, not letting go of Sherlock, and for the first time perceived the crowd having formed around them. The crowd staring at Sherlock on the pavement, barely conscious and in pain.

Greg paled the instant he understood. "Oh my god, John!" he exclaimed and hurried towards them, shoving a few of the bystanders out of the way. "John, what the hell happened? Is he…?"

John returned his gaze to Sherlock and felt his heart miss a beat. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his breaths seemed far too flat. He shook his head and at the same time urged: "Sherlock, open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me. Yeah, that's it. Fine. You're doing fine."

He was sure Sherlock would have shot him an annoyed look if he had had the strength to do so, but instead, he simply groaned again.

"H'rts, J'hn…," he mumbled, sweat showing on his forehead.

Fuck.

"Greg, somebody call an ambulance. Now!" John snapped and then turned back to Sherlock. "It's alright, alright. Easy. Just look at me. Look at me. Don't close your eyes, Sherlock. You'll be fine, I promise."

Carefully, he attempted to remove Sherlock's coat from his left shoulder, to cataloguise the injury better. Sherlock hissed in pain at John's touch and tried to roll over which John quickly prevented by softly, as softly as possible, steadying Sherlock in the somewhat awkward position - half on his side, half on his back - he was lying in. His prodding seemed to hurt his friend further, prodding at the now blood-soaked shirt beneath the coat, and what his fingertips could feel there made John's blood grow cold. An open fracture. Of the shoulder, of the clavicle, of God knew what else. Possible nerve damage, or damage of…

No. Stop it.

Why couldn't he do something? He was a doctor, for god's sake, and his best friend was in bloody pain, and yet there was absolutely nothing he could do. Nothing more than wait.

"Ambulance will be here in about fifteen minutes," Greg reported while kneeling down besides John, almost hesitatingly grabbing Sherlock's hand.

Fifteen minutes.

Greg shot John a worried look. "That's fifteen minutes too long, I suppose?"

John found he could only nod.

* * *

Sherlock lost consciousness before the ambulance arrived, passed out from the pain, hopefully, and not because of a concussion, sparing John to have to listen to his pained whimpering. That way, John pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck all the time until paramedics came and shoved him aside, fussing about Sherlock, still lying on the cold concrete, in recovery position John had carefully, very carefully, rolled him.

He watched distantly how Lestrade and a few other officers having been on the case with them were busy keeping the curious crowd at bay, the crowd where rumours about 'Sherlock Holmes, remember? The fake genius? Dead?' were already spreading, or how one paramedic was putting a breathing mask on Sherlock's face which indeed did fog unsteadily, or how another one put up an IV line, injecting something, probably, hopefully, painkillers.

As the paramedics were done there, apparently, and slowly pushed the stretcher towards the ambulance, John of course followed, still somewhat dazed, only to be told by one of the paramedics that he was not allowed inside.

"Come on, John," Greg tried to encourage him. "I've got a police car - almost as fast as them."


	2. Part 2

First of all, I don't own... You know.

Secondly: Thank you for following, favouriting and reviewing... It means a lot, actually!

* * *

Unexpected Outcomes of Cases

Part 2

* * *

After having been waiting for more than twenty minutes, John had long begun to regret that he had been honest to the nurse he had asked for Sherlock.

'I'm sorry, but are you his husband?' had been her question, and John, stunned as always and completely taken by surprise, had reacted accordingly and in that had made it obvious that he _wasn__'__t_.

Which meant that he was not going to get any information out of anyone as long as they were still examining Sherlock.

He had already downed the cup of coffee Greg had thoughtfully bought him and was now slowly crushing the plastic cup in his hands. Crushing it because he couldn't stand waiting.

"Taking quite a while," Greg mumbled somewhen, resting his head back against the wall.

"Yeah," John made, unfolding the cup again. It was, in fact. What the hell was wrong, why…?

"Did he… did he hit his head?" Greg suddenly asked and turned his gaze towards John.

John's hand threw the plastic cup to the floor, fully crushing it with the sole of his shoe. "I don't know," he admitted. "I didn't see it, but most likely, he…"

He was interrupted by steps sounding in the otherwise empty corridor, fast steps approaching. His heart beating wildly all of a sudden, John lept to his feet, as did Lestrade.

"John Watson?" the approaching man addressed him, and John nodded shortly. "You're listed as Mr Holmes' emergency contact, is that correct?"

"Yeah," John croaked and raised his chin a bit. He was a doctor, after all. He'd served in Afghanistan, and there was actually no bloody reason why he should be terrified right now. But he was.

The man in front of them smiled. "Your friend has been very lucky," he informed them, and John felt light-headed for a moment.

Then Greg cut in: "What do you mean, lucky? The last time I saw him, he had blacked out."

The doctor smiled again. "His shoulder is quite impressively broken, as is his clavicle, in an open fracture. An additional minor concussion, whiplash and three bruised ribs on his left side as well as a slightly sprained wrist. This is what I consider lucky in regard to the circumstances of his injuries, as I have been told."

"A comminuted fracture?" John asked. "The shoulder?"

"What? What're you talking about?" Greg interjected again, but this time, the doctor didn't pay attention to him.

"I'm afraid so, yes," the doctor answered. "X-rays, however, have made me positive that we will be able to fix him again. He is being prepared for surgery right now…"

John felt himself nodding. Of course. Open fracture. Surgery. "Can I see him?" he asked. "Just for a few minutes, before surgery?"

For the umpteenth time this evening, relief flooded through him as the doctor nodded. "Of course. Follow me, please."

With an excusing smile towards Greg, John hurried.

* * *

Sherlock looked, astoundingly so, better than he had on the concrete.

He was still almost as white as the plasters taped to both his right temple and left cheek, but he was, at least, awake, not unconscious due to the pain.

"John," he mumbled as he saw his friend entering the room next to the operating theatres.

Upon hearing his name, John let out the breath he had subconsciously been holding. Since he didn't trust his voice, he simply kept studying Sherlock, Sherlock whose left shoulder and arm had been immobilised by a somewhat makeshift sling and who had an IV line in the back of his right hand.

"Lestrade…," Sherlock began flatly, slowly closing his eyes. "Did he catch him?"

For a moment, John didn't know who he was talking about - until realisation dawned on him. Despite the entire situation, he couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he muttered as he drew the one chair in the room closer to the bed and sat down on it. "You almost get run over by a car, have us worried to death, break your shoulder and every possible bone attached to it… and all you think about is if Lestrade caught our suspect?"

With great effort, as it seemed, Sherlock blinked his eyes open again. "So… did he catch… ah…" His question ended in a moan as he tried to push himself a bit more upright.

John almost flinched. "Don't move," he ordered, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. "None of the bones in your shoulder is in the place it's supposed to be, remember?" He paused for a few moments, watching Sherlock take controlled breaths through his nose. "And, by the way, no, Lestrade didn't catch him. Because he was too busy with worrying about you on the street."

Sherlock at least managed to look a tiny bit embarrassed as he forced his eyes open again, directing his gaze at John.

A nurse entered the room, preparing anaesthesia.

"John…"

John swallowed again and reflexively grabbed Sherlock's right hand. "No, don't. We'll talk about that later, once you feel well enough to have me kill you by myself for being so… so… Never mind. Your surgery will go well and then you will feel better… less in pain, and you'll be alright, you hear me?"

Surprisingly enough, his grip was being returned. "John…," Sherlock began again but was interrupted by the nurse, asking John to leave.

John squeezed his best friend's hand again tightly and then losened his grip, getting up from his chair. "Sorry, Sherlock. Have to leave now. Everything will be fine, alright?"

Sherlock managed a tiny nod before closing his eyes again, the nurse preparing the syringe.

Only two steps later his voice made John stop dead in his tracks. "Will you be there when I wake up?"

A smile was forming on John's lips, a smile Sherlock - his eyes tightly shut, still breathing in a very controlled way, the nurse with the syringe standing at his right side - couldn't see. "Of course I will."

* * *

Logically, waiting should have been less agonising now that he knew that Sherlock was going to be fine, that the broken shoulder wasn't life-threatening, that this surgery was more or less a routine one to the doctors.

Only that it wasn't.

Lestrade had left after John had ensured him that everything was as alright as it could be, making John promise to call or text.

And now John was sitting in one of the hospital corridors, his head resting against the wall, and watching the passing of time.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Thirty minutes.

One hour.

Agonisingly slow.

And still no news.

What if something went wrong? What if there were complications? What if Sherlock…

No. Stop it.

One and a half hours.

Two hours.

Two and a half.

Two hours and forty minutes.

Complicated fracture, complicated surgery. Of course.

Trying not to think about it too much, John simply closed his eyes and sighed.


	3. Part 3

As always, characters are not mine.

Furthermore: Warnings! I'm afraid I'm a rather fluffy person...

* * *

Unexpected Outcomes of Cases

Part 3

* * *

He was allowed to see Sherlock almost immediately after surgery, being his emergency contact, a nurse leading him to the hospital room Sherlock was going to spend the night in.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, John made himself comfortable - as comfortable as possible - in one of the chairs in the room and simply watched Sherlock, propped up on a few pillows, not yet awake, but still in the drug-induced haze. And not in pain, hopefully.

All had gone well, he had been ensured, all the bones were set again and no further complications had arisen during surgery, Sherlock's shoulder now neatly immobilised by a sling.

That was why it was bothering John to watch his friend with an oxygen mask on his face, fogging steadily in his deep sleep. Sherlock would have complained about this measure of precaution - for a precaution it was, as the doctor had confirmed -, and John found it oddly disturbing. Somehow, the mask made Sherlock look infinitely worse than he actually was. Because he was fine. Fine. Or would be, soon.

Which he would start telling John as soon as he woke up. When he finally woke up - which, considering the heavy pain medication constantly coursing through his system, might well take a while.

It did. For a while, John used to simply stare at Sherlock and notice the slight frown or the soft lines forming around his eyes and his nose as he slowly became more aware of his surroundings.

Lines forming. Frowning, even in his state of semi-unconsciousness.

John started chewing at his bottom lip when he heard the first small moan. He would probably have missed it if he hadn't known Sherlock so well, would have missed all the little tell-tale signs that his best friend was in _pain_, despite his being… well, drugged. Wrinkles of pain, noises of pain, without being fully awake.

Sherlock's right hand twitched slightly and then moved towards his face, only to flop down to the duvet before even half-finishing the movement.

"Easy," John heard himself whispering, his first words since ages. "It's alright, Sherlock, alright."

"Jhn?" Sherlock breathed barely understandable into the mask, his hand trembling and shifting again. Quickly, John took hold of Sherlock's hand, mindful of the IV line, and gripped it tightly. "Don't move. You've just had surgery, remember? Try to sleep a bit."

"J'hn…" Sherlock exhaled again, and this time, John understood. Not letting go of Sherlock's hand, he carefully removed the oxygen mask from his friend's face and rested it again his neck.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered for a moment, but didn't open; instead, another frown was spreading on his forehead.

John felt a strange lump build inside his throat upon that sight. Sherlock was obviously in pain, and he couldn't do a thing about it. Again.

"Sleep," he said again and hoped to sound encouraging.

This time, Sherlock fought his eyes half open with what seemed to be a huge effort. "You… stay?" he slurred, still halfway knocked out by anaesthesia and medication.

John had experienced quite a variety of ways of behaving from Sherlock this evening and night, from his normal self to being in pain after having been hit by a car, to being almost back to normal right before surgery and with pain medication in his system - and now. And somehow, this dazed version of Sherlock looking at him with bleary eyes and drooping eyelids, for once without his customary coolness and arrogance, but simply… vulnerable, touched John's heart in a way he had never thought it possible.

A tiny smile appeared on his face as he squeezed Sherlock's hand softly and nodded. "Told you before. Of course I will. And now sleep."

* * *

John was fine during the night. Really, he was. It was neither the most uncomfortable night he had spent in a hospital nor the most agonising one. So he was fine.

Sherlock remained oblivious throughout most of the night, fortunately not being up to resisting the dazing impact of the painkillers. The frown never disappeared, and from time to time, he shifted a bit and moaned then, his eyes never opening fully.

And although he had been thinking about it for at least five minutes, John never put the oxygen mask back on his friend's face, knowing that it would make both him and Sherlock - when awake, of course - feel somewhat awkward.

He even remembered to text Greg in the middle of the night, typing his message one-handedly since his left hand was still entwined with Sherlock's right one.

When Sherlock woke in the morning, apparently achy all over and hardly willing to move, John fetched him a glass of water and helped him to sit up further, enough to take a few small sips.

"So you…," Sherlock croaked and then attempted to clear his throat, avoiding John's gaze. "You've been here all night."

In the first instant, John wasn't sure whether this was a statement or a question, so he simply settled on a hoarse 'yeah'.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. "So I… I believe I asked for it, so…"

That was the moment when John understood. He had to bite back a chuckle as he placed the half empty glass on the nightstand again. "Yeah, you did. And I stayed."

Sherlock's eyelids were drooping yet again, but he still attempted to stay awake. "John… I… thank you."

Now the smile was inevitable. "Of course, Sherlock."

Well, John mused as Sherlock's eyes closed again, who would have assumed a thank you to be the outcome of this case?

* * *

Sherlock's still exhausted sleep became more restless as the time was passing and was finally ended with the arrival of the doctor, checking Sherlock over again. Being sure that everything was going to be fine, John left the room for that, using the loo and buying himself another cup of coffee in the cafeteria.

When he returned to Sherlock's room, the doctor was gone and Sherlock apparently on the verge of falling asleep again.

"So," John began, "what did he say?"

Sherlock sighed and blinked his eyes open. "'m fine," he mumbled.

John had to chuckle. "Yeah, absolutely. I can see that." Fine. Sherlock insisting on being fine. Back to normal, then. Luckily. "Listen, Sherlock…" John stopped for a moment, searching for the right words. "I think I should go home for a while, check on Mrs Hudson and get you a change of clothes…"

John had expected complaining, but not what he was to hear.

"Baker Street? Yes, perfect…" Sherlock raised his head a tiny bit. "Where are my clothes? I can't go home wearing… that."

John's brain in fact needed a few moments to catch up. "I don't… Wait, what? Go home? Sherlock, you can't go home, you need to stay here for at least… well, I don't know, a few days. You're bruised and battered all over, and you need to rest."

Sherlock sighed tiredly. "And I can't do this at home because…?"

John remained silent for exactly two seconds too long, two seconds in which he stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

"You know I would feel much more comfortable at home," Sherlock added, and John realised he had lost. Because Sherlock was right. And because John somehow couldn't bear the thought of leaving Sherlock behind, of not being the one with him when he was in pain or tired or…

"Fine," he stated curtly. "I'll see what I can do, but when we're at home - if! -, you're going to do what I tell you, and absolutely nothing else."

* * *

One and half an hour later, John found himself in the back of a cab, Sherlock by his side, his head resting against the window, more or less alseep.

Manoeuvring Sherlock from the hospital room into the cab had been difficult - and without any doubt exhausting - enough, but waking him up again and getting him out of the cab was even more difficult.

By the time John had paid the driver, Sherlock was swaying on his feet, leaning against their front door for support.

John barely managed to unlock the door, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock's right arm, leading him inside. The bag of medication he had been given at the hospital found its interim depository on the floor next to the stairs, with John being to busy with getting Sherlock safely upstairs. It took a while - minutes in which John was prepared to catch Sherlock twice, and had to do so in fact once, Sherlock stumbling backwards - but finally, they were in the living-room, on the sofa.

"Sit down," John ordered and removed Sherlock's right arm from his tattered coat. "Stay here, I'll just get the painkillers."

The noises they had made had of course attracted Mrs Hudson, hovering over the bag John had carelessly dropped and making a fuss as soon as John had told her quietly what had happened.

"It's fine, Mrs H," he ensured her. "Nothing to worry about."

Mrs Hudson shook her head and huffed. "Oh you. Stupid boys. You go back upstairs, I'll bring you tea and biscuits."

But when John got upstairs again, entering their living-room, he found his flatmate almost disappeared behind the pillows on the sofa, his feet still in his shoes and still on the floor, but deeply asleep.

John sighed, quickly removed Sherlock's shoes and then lifted his legs onto the sofa. Then he slightly rolled Sherlock over, taking pressure from his broken shoulder, and in that, happened to come in contact with his ungrazed right hand, only covered by a plaster because of the removed IV line. Cold, he noticed.

Cold and exhausted. Brilliant.

With a soft smile, John went to get a blanket to cover Sherlock and then made himself comfortable in his armchair. No doubt Sherlock would start complaining about boredom as soon as the waves of pain in his shoulder had disminished a bit, no doubt he would soon be back to his usual self, craving for distraction. Maybe Greg had some cold cases for Sherlock to work on, John pondered. But it was fine, it was all going to be fine. Sherlock would be fine. John had to smile again as his thoughts wandered back to when Sherlock, still a little dazed, had thanked him, almost clumsily, clearly embarrassed. Well, there was only one Sherlock Holmes. And John would make certain that it remained that way.

Massaging his stiff neck with his left hand, he locked his gaze on his sleeping flatmate on the sofa and smiled contently, waiting for Mrs Hudson, tea and biscuits.


End file.
